


Never at All

by anoyo



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-10
Updated: 2011-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoyo/pseuds/anoyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It only takes twenty-four hours of the relative tranquility of Charles’ Westchester estate to bring Erik to the edge of his patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never at All

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Charles mind reading in a totally uncalled for situation, by [Wolfie](http://fuzzy_squish.livejournal.com). I'm not sure how uncalled for this is, but, you know, it wasn't necessary, so we'll run with that. Also, there were two endings for this that I thought of, so I asked Wolfie if he wanted sap or raunch, and he picked sap, so if you want the raunch version, well, come up with another X-Men: First Class [prompt](http://anoyo.livejournal.com/181626.html) for me and I'll write it! Or . . . I'll just write it. Eventually. Also, in my head, this has a post-movie sequel ficlet. Or something. Yes. **Major note** : this is not edited. As it is a ficlet, I just didn't. Apologies.

It only takes twenty-four hours of the relative tranquility of Charles’ Westchester estate to bring Erik to the edge of his patience. When Charles finds him pacing the east drawing room in frustration, a series of tin chess pieces scattered about that – Charles guesses, based upon their incongruous sizes and patterning – likely used to be a set of cookery, Charles suggests they go out for drinks.

Erik clenches his jaw in what is probably annoyance at the distraction from what he feels he ought to be doing, but he agrees, gesturing for Charles to lead the way. Charles resists gleaning the surface of his mind for some hint – some trace – of what Erik’s frustration is building from, and into, because he told Erik that he would not, and because he thinks that he is an intelligent enough man to suss it out for himself. In fact, he has an idea already, but it can wait until after the drinks; that discussion would be in conflict with their purpose.

Five minutes into the drive, Erik asks, “Where are we headed?” Charles takes the initiative as a good sign rather than a flash of impatience – interest rather than assessment.

“The Drawing Room, a pub in the town that might have a few other folk our age hanging about,” Charles answers. He gives Erik a good-natured smile and adds, “They’re also damn cheap.”

Erik smiles at that, letting out one breath of a laugh and bringing up his arm to rest his elbow against the crook where the window meets the door and holding his knuckles against his mouth. “Sounds fine,” he says through his hand.

Charles pulls up across from the pub before he needs to think of a way to continue their meager conversation and Erik is pushing his own door open, stepping out into the evening air and silently threatening to leave Charles behind.

Inside the bar, Charles orders himself a stout and watches as Erik orders a cheap, American brew, seemingly uncaring at what it is that he’s ingesting. After a few false starts that stumble to a close under the thundercloud of Erik’s mood that Charles saw in the house and again in the car, Charles gives up conversation as a lost cause and drinks his beer in silent camaraderie.

That is, of course, until a young lady – Charles doesn’t recognize her, but then again he recognizes very few of the village’s inhabitants – slides onto the stool next to him and orders three fingers of whiskey. And Charles comments – can’t help but comment, he’s not meant but to stick his nose absolutely everywhere – with a smile, “My word, but that’s a fierce drink, miss. Might I ask if there’s a reason you’re so bent on drowning something?”

The lady gives Charles a winning smile that Charles grants points upon the merits – he had not entered the conversation to sleep with her, having been rather more inclined to sleep with Erik once he’d taken him down a few notches, just as he’d done last night, and the night before that, and, really, he had been hoping for a great many nights to come, but he could see where his entrance to this particular talk had been interpreted as an attempt into the lady’s bed – and replies, “You might ask, sir, but I cannot guarantee that I will tell you a thing.”

A charming answer. She seems to be, in fact, a very charming woman. She simply isn’t the conversational partner Charles is looking to have gotten out of the evening. He glances back at Erik, expecting him to still be staring stormily into his alcohol.

But Erik has a _look_ on his face – that I can’t catch Shaw, I can’t move fucking submarines, what am I _worth_ look that Charles has started to think is Erik’s look for things likes failure, and desolation. That look means that it only takes Charles half a second to break his promise and to quickly gather Erik’s surface thoughts, hearing jumbled, but clear—

 _that’s a message_

 _if that’s what you want_

 _I don’t need this – yes I do – you’ve made me – but I can’t_

 _I’m not this weak – yes I am_

 _why do I even care – just let me leave –_

And Charles knows exactly when Erik has caught on to what he’s doing, because his eyes, and his thoughts, become sharp, and Charles has never had another choice at all, has he? If Erik’s stormy mood was a portend, this, perhaps, is the storm itself.

Even as Erik is slamming some unknown amount of cash down on the bar, Charles is pulling bills out of his wallet and dismissing himself from the young lady’s presence simultaneously, noting absently that she looks more disappointed than upset, so at least he has maintained his charm.

Erik is halfway across the street before Charles is out the door, and Charles spares hardly a glance at the road to make sure he isn’t going to end a tragedy before he yells, “Erik!” and jogs to catch up.

To Charles’ surprise, Erik simply walks to the car and turns to wait for Charles to catch him.

“Erik,” Charles begins, but Erik likely hears none of it.

“For what purpose am I here, Charles? I can maintain the distraction as easily at the house as here, and I won’t have you feeling the need to snoop through my thoughts.” Erik’s eyes fume and his body is rigid; Charles knows that Erik won’t waste the energy pretending that Charles wasn’t able to discern precisely what he was wondering inside the bar. “So I’ll ask again, Charles. For what purpose am I here?”

Charles considers tactics he could use for half a second before he knows – with the part of himself that met Erik and fell into step immediately, recognized and knew everything that was anything and accepted that it could always have only been _this_ \-- that Erik will only accept his honesty, and will know it as easily as Charles could. “You needed a night away from the house, and I fell into old habits before I considered whether or not you would care. I may be able to know that the thoughts of others, but that doesn’t mean I always think, Erik.”

Erik watches him for a moment before shocking Charles further as he says, with all the depth and command in his voice and his gaze that he holds for the task they have set upon themselves, “And what if I said I do care? What then, Charles?”

Shocking, but the answer is simple, and there’s only one choice – there’s only ever been one choice. “Then you may have whatever you wish, Erik. All you have to do is ask.”

A breath, and then Erik steps forward into the space that Charles has been occupying, so close that Charles feels his breath upon his face, and he feels a rush at the thought that they are still in the road, regardless of the darkness, where anyone might pass by and take note of the inappropriate and taboo nature of their stances. But he can no longer consider anything when Erik says, “All of you. I will not share, Charles. I want all of you,” and leans forward to press their mouths together, a hand at the base of Charles’ skull.

Charles feels the rough scrape of end-of-day stubble against his cheek and wraps an arm around Erik’s waist, pulling him closer, knowing that whatever else may be or come to be, this was a path with only one destination, and he does not mind.


End file.
